Fallen Angel
by Crazy4Moony
Summary: Remus only loves art when Sirius' body is the canvas. The way ancient words run down his arm, and how old signs are posed on his hip. Though he loves Sirius' wings the most--there is no way telling whether they've been there forever, or were there never.


Fallen Angel

Remus knew about Sirius. He knew about the raven's obsession with body-art, and he wasn't going to lie about it. He didn't know why James didn't—frankly he didn't care. He supposed Sirius and James' friendship was different from Sirius and Remus'. They were best mates, through and through—he was absolutely positive they'd seen each other naked, but maybe only in a glimpse, and they were old chums, therefore they probably wouldn't be inspecting the naked glory of each other.

This one time, Sirius had been in the bathroom, after taking a shower, and he was spreading lotion on his ankle—he'd bruised it in a Quidditch match and the lotion was supposed to heal it, so he could go hop back on that broomstick as soon as possible. They'd been talking, yelling at each other until Remus grew frustrated and opened the door. Sirius hadn't rejected and though they were silent for a full second, they soon resumed their conversation. Remus stood in the doorway while Sirius continued massaging his ankle. His legs were spread, revealing everything there was to Sirius Orion Black, and it was then that Remus noticed the black spot on his friend's inner thigh. He couldn't read the inscription, but knew then and there that Sirius' skin wasn't as unmarred as it seemed to be—Sirius had a thing for body-paint.

Remus never mentioned it. He supposed Sirius had a reason to keep quiet about his tattoos. Yet he knew James had no clue that there were things hidden under Sirius' clothes. He could tell because once they were debating on taking one—all four of them, a sign of friendship—and he went on and on about how it was supposed to hurt and they'd be in pain. Not once did he ask Sirius if it was true, therefore Remus knew James hadn't been informed of Sirius' body-art.

Of course they all realised Sirius liked the idea of ink on his skin. Sometimes when they were studying he got out his 'special' quill and dipped it in the darkest ink he could find, lazily doodling ancient signs on his arm. They knew he was a bit weird sometimes, but Remus also knows all the Marauders agree that the darkness on Sirius' arm fits him. His eyes have depths only they can read, and the signs he scribbles on his arm only nurture his scarred soul.

On another occasion, Remus was too weak to move or dress and Sirius had told his friends he would take care of the werewolf. Remus never knew Sirius slept topless, but he noticed it then. There was a black string drawn on his arm, in a strange sickle with Latin words. The raven was dead asleep but Remus' muscles were in pain so he focused on the dark ink. He realised it was a circle with the moon sickle—full moon, and so on—and although he hadn't studied Latin, he could read the words underneath.

_Lupus quod Canis._

It was the first time he discovered that Sirius had dedicated a part of his body-paint to Remus. And it made him feel tingly and happy and giddy. Even if it shouldn't.

Remus didn't want to tell Sirius that he knew. He felt like he would be intruding—prying—Sirius' easy lifestyle, and he didn't want to break what they had. Though when one day he found Sirius in a deserted hallway, sketching away on a piece of parchment with his quill he decided that Sirius had the right to know. He carefully went over to the boy, regarding his masterpiece—a set of wings. He was putting shadow to the drawing, and Remus figured he was planning on putting it on his body sooner or later.

"So," Remus said, making Sirius turn in surprise. "What are you having done now?" He looked over the boy's shoulder as if he hadn't seen the wings yet. "Angel-wings?"

Instead of pretending Remus was a fool, Sirius nodded—Remus thought that maybe Sirius had known all along. Maybe he'd even intentionally made the brunette notice. Or maybe not. You could never be sure with Sirius.

They carried on about the wings, discussing their appeal and Sirius continued about whether or not Remus liked them. Remus never asked where Sirius planned on putting them—he wasn't sure it was his place to ask—but hoped there would be a chance of seeing them. Sirius' skin was so white that black angel-wings would definitely bring out what was inside. Maybe Sirius truly was a fallen angel.

Weeks later when they celebrated James' birthday he was suddenly naked and in Sirius' bed. Remus knew being naked in a friend's bed couldn't really be a smart thing to do but he couldn't care less. Because dammit, Sirius had kissed him first! And when he inspected Sirius' chest and arms and legs—not even thinking about stopping at the dark words on his thigh—he really just wanted to see where the angel-wings went. He pretended he wasn't so much in love that he actually wanted to feel that soft skin slide under his fingers.

When he woke up the next morning Sirius pecked his lips—and maybe being naked in a friend's bed wasn't that stupid—and stretched delicately. It was then that Remus' eyes fell on the boy's back. And just like that he'd suddenly found his wings.

Sliding his palm over Sirius' back the boy purred softly, and the black ink moved—as if about to take flight. But instead of doing so, they spread out, going to Sirius' chest. Flexing like the body they were marked on, they went back to there place when Sirius relaxed again. Remus stared perplex at the realistic feathers under his fingers, and though he couldn't feel them, Sirius' skin was soft enough. They ruffled against Sirius' back, as if feeling Remus' fingers.

Remus never asked him how he managed to get those moving—perhaps he'd always had them. Maybe they were a part of him, growing with his body. But in all honesty, he didn't care that much. He got up, sitting down on his knees. Then he kissed Sirius' shoulder, right where the wing went down again. Flattering his head against his back he wrapped his arms around the pale body—he felt those slim hands cover his own and he knew it was good.

Maybe Sirius had issues. Maybe the years he'd spent in his house were a couple of years too much. Perhaps he was scarred for life—and perhaps he would never heal. But Remus didn't care; he was hardly one to talk, when it came to being scarred for life.

Ten minutes later he finally focused long enough to see what was on Sirius' thigh. It wasn't much remarkable, but it made Remus gasp and lock eyes with the boy he was straddling—because it meant so many things that it just drove him crazy.

_Remus'_

He supposed there was more to Sirius than he'd ever known. Sirius had known they were in love before Remus even considered the feeling—and Sirius knew they were meant to be forever when Remus was afraid they were already breaking down. Remus kissed Sirius hard, and was positive that being naked in the bed of your friend—lover—was not bad.

Over the years the collection of art on Sirius' body grew, he got ink on his chest and arms—and Remus was always enthralled by the sight. They were somehow always related to a dog and a wolf and a full moon—and always felt as if they were engraved in Sirius' skin. Remus loved touching them and kissing them, definitely those splayed across his heart—because those were so beautiful when Sirius was excited, his heart beating fast.

His favourite were still the black wings. They felt so alive, when Sirius stretched they followed suit—when they made love they moved, and sometimes curled up on his skin, the ink moving as if it was going to hover off—as if the wings would sail them away. They never did, but Remus didn't care—being in Sirius' arms was always like sailing away.

He knew about Sirius. And he never told anyone. Because Sirius was his fallen angel—no one could share that with him. Remus didn't need ink to be marked—Sirius bruised his neck with kisses, tensed him up and let him go. He marked Remus' body with his lip. Though there were occasions where Remus was working in bed, and Sirius would take his quill and scribble his name on Remus' thigh. The marks might not seem permanent to the eye, but they were to Remus and he felt them burning on his skin forever.

Remus particularly liked how Sirius wings could encase him when they met again after so long. It felt as if they were there to bring him home—back into those arms. How for a minute they seemed to float, and he felt lightheaded.

Perhaps Sirius truly was a fallen angel. Good gone bad, with the right kind of attitude and the wings to prove it. But just like fallen angels no one ever knew for sure where they had malfunctioned. And when Sirius died, Remus thought about those wings—it appeared that they finally got to carry him away.

He let his body be used as an empty canvas in a spur of insane grief—his body had never been marked permanently for the world to see, but he needed it. Remus needed prove that he was Sirius'. So he went to the closest magic tattoo parlour, and let his own thigh be marked.

_Lapsus Angelus_

**AN: no comment.**


End file.
